


Observing Ferelden Traditions

by Sassydoilies



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age Christmas Week, F/M, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Mistletoe, dasatinalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 09:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13074273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sassydoilies/pseuds/Sassydoilies
Summary: Ella and Zevran have done everything - except kiss. The new king of Ferelden provides a push to get them to be honest with themselves.





	Observing Ferelden Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Day 3 of dasatinalia's Dragon Age Christmas Week. 
> 
> Theme: CRYSTAL GRACE  
> or rather… mistletoe. have your favorite characters kissed yet? have they confessed, or are they already in a relationship? give their love the spotlight on the third day, between a few bites of gingerbread.

The palace looked lovely this time of year, despite the darkspawn drawing ever closer. Alistair, newly crowned king of Ferelden, had bowed to the wishes of the Landsmeet and committed to staying in Denerim at least through Satinalia. To show the people things aren’t so bad, they said, though Ella Cousland suspected Alistair just wanted to spend the holiday he believed to be his last with his friends.

 

She herself had plans for how things might go, once they were face-to-face with the archdemon, and they all involved Alistair staying alive. She had no illusions of the odds, but she would do what she could – her duty was to the people of Ferelden, more than ever now she was a Grey Warden, and that meant preserving the king and queen at all costs.

 

The decorations almost distracted her from thoughts of their encroaching potential doom.

 

The halls were decked in evergreen boughs, with bright silver ribbons and red berries shimmering through. Candles were everywhere, making every window into a luminary and every room warm and bright. Alistair had even ordered a huge evergreen tree to be erected in the courtyard, decked in lights and glimmering baubles, topped with a tremendous bow. He’d sent his steward to as many merchants as possible, buying toys and clothing for children, and having everything wrapped under the large tree. The idea, he’d confided, was to have families from the alienage and the poor districts come to the palace during the week of Satinalia and be able to give their children something when they might not otherwise be able to.

 

He’d earned a lot of ire from some of the ministers for the idea, and a lot more respect from the common people and their traveling companions – even Morrigan had said that he might actually have had a good thought, though she followed up with the statement that the poor people would likely rob him blind with how soft he was.

 

Zevran’s reaction had stunned them all. The former assassin went out on his own, returning hours later with a small cart he’d brow-beaten one of the merchants into lending him piled high with items he contributed to what Wynne called the “Charity Tree”. Ella had been the only one to notice his new jewelry, a heavy chain and a large gold ring. It didn’t surprise her when the two ministers who had been the most vocal about what a terrible idea the whole thing was were found dead, with the sign of the Antivan Crows next to them.

 

She’d almost said something to him, but decided to wait until they were alone. She didn’t want to put anyone in the position of having to try to arrest him. Their rooms were next to each other, so Ella simply waited outside her room for him to return. He was whistling as he came down the hallway, but his steps stuttered when he saw her. “Ah! I should have known you’d be waiting. My generosity has driven you wild with desire, no doubt.”

 

A small smile played over her lips. “I wanted to have a private conversation, Zev. You know why.”

 

He pressed a hand to his chest. “I know what I hope, my beauty, but your expression tells me it is not to be.”

 

“It was somewhat more serious.” She opened her door, motioning for him to follow her inside. Before she’d taken two steps inside, however, Ella stopped dead. They’d said the staff would be decorating the guest rooms, but she had no idea it was be this . . . intense.

 

Her room shimmered with intricately cut glass shades on every lamp, gold and silver trimmings on anything that would stand still. And every doorframe or cross piece was almost sagging with crystal grace.

 

Zevran poked his head around her shoulder. “What happened? Did someone . . . well.”

 

Ella stepped forward, distracted now. “What is he playing . . . oh.” Her cheeks flushed, and she shut the door behind Zevran. She turned slowly around, studying the room and realizing what Alistair was playing at.

 

She had Zevran had an . . . arrangement. They were both working through their feelings, and she hadn’t been willing to take a step that meant commitment. She’d been supposed to marry an arl, at least, she couldn’t . . . be in love with a shiftless assassin from Antiva.

 

But he made her laugh, and made her feel good about herself, encouraged her to make better choices – despite his self-proclaimed inability to make good ones for himself. And they had done all sorts of things that would have made her unmarriageable, several of which she had hoped they could do after their serious talk about not putting a friend into a situation where he might have to order one’s execution. But they hadn’t kissed. Too much emotion there, too easy to trick yourself into believing you were in love when it was just lust.

 

Alistair, apparently, was not interested in helping preserve her self-control.

 

“What do you mean?” he looked around the room. “It is a bit over the top, yes, but the flowers are lovely.” Zevran took a deep breath and smiled at her, making her heart flutter against her ribs. “And they smell lovely as well.”

 

“You’re unaware of the Ferelden tradition, then?”

 

He dropped himself into an armchair, long legs crossed at the ankles in front of him. “I have heard of none. Something barbaric? Or perhaps something . . . scandalous?” A twinkle in his eyes as he tucked his arms behind his head.

 

Ella leaned against a dresser. “It’s based on a folk tale, something from the Alamarri. One of their gods was felled by an arrow carved from the base of the crystal grace plant – it’s woody, you know? And his mother wept over the weapon.” Her lips quirked. “Her tears made the arrow bloom into these flowers,” one finger lifted a bell-shaped bloom, “which she placed over her son’s wound. It healed him, and she was so grateful that she promised a kiss to any who walked under the plant.”

 

“What a curious story. But I do not see what that has to do with it being draped all over your room.” Zevran’s lips twitched up into a grin. “I would gladly kiss any goddess who wished to, however.”

 

Ella clucked her tongue. “The idea is that anyone who is under the crystal grace, especially at this time of year, should receive a kiss.  Couples enjoy standing there for the purpose of kissing.”

 

It was as though a flame had been kindled behind his eyes. “Is that so. A most . . . intriguing tradition, then.” He stood up slowly. “And His Majesty had your whole room covered in it.”

 

She cleared her throat, rubbing her palms against her thighs nervously. “Apparently so.” He was crossing the room, and the way he moved was making it hard to think of any argument against the kiss. Why would she want to avoid it, anyway? Didn’t she . . . care for him?

 

“I would be a poor guest if I ignored such a tradition,” Zevran said, his rich voice low and smooth enough for Ella to feel it down to her toes. One of his hands circled around her waist as he reached her, pulling her towards him.

 

She nodded, unsure her voice would work. “I suppose so.” Oh, good, she could still talk, if that wispy sound had come from her.

 

His other hand cupped her cheek, the smirk on his face making her cheeks redden further. “There’s a great deal of this flower around. I’ll likely have to kiss you several times – likely in several places – to ensure I’m not disrespecting my host.”

 

Another nod, but all she could do was watch as he drew her face to his. She felt his breath against her lips a moment before their lips touched.

 

Ella wasn’t sure what she’d expected from their first kiss. She was sure, the part of her that was capable of thought, that she hadn’t expected the feeling of warmth and home. This felt good and right, the press of bodies and lips. His tongue pressed against her lips and she parted them for him, the warmth turning into heat.

 

She melted against him, deciding to deal with the potential fallout from this later, giving herself over to the feeling of his kiss, the light taste of brandy and clean water, the press of his lithe body against hers. This was what love felt like, warm and safe, hot and hungry.

 

Their lips parted, and she looked into his eyes for a moment, lips parted and swollen and slick with the taste of him. “Zevran,” she whispered, realizing that her hands had gone to tangle in his hair at some point, “I . . . I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”


End file.
